


Frayed

by sidonay



Category: Preacher (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 19:18:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7520018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidonay/pseuds/sidonay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I told you it wouldn’t work,” Fiore says later in their motel room, standing with his arms at his sides, still not finding it easy to hold himself in this human body, hasn’t been comfortable with his own limbs and DeBlanc sighs from where he’s sitting on the edge of one of the beds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frayed

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place almost immediately after what happens in 1x08. I know there’s already a ‘sneak peek’ video about these two for next week’s episode but I really wanted to write this anyway because this whole thing is giving me Feelings and I had to put them somewhere.

“I told you it wouldn’t work,” Fiore says later in their motel room, standing with his arms at his sides, still not finding it easy to hold himself in this human body, hasn’t been comfortable with his own limbs and DeBlanc sighs from where he’s sitting on the edge of one of the beds, scratches a thumbnail against the coarse blanket and stares at the bloodstain on the wall near the closet where he had slowly died before Fiore had put him out of his misery. Maybe he’d do him the favor and do it again tonight. Would he, if he asked? Even if he wasn’t exactly, physically dying?

“Please don’t,” DeBlanc says instead, listens as Fiore shifts awkwardly, feet pressing into the uneven floor. Did he want an argument from him? Bitter words spat back in his direction, just their weird sort of foreplay to remind him that sure, he’s fine. A minor hiccup just like everything else had been since they got here. You could cure hiccups eventually. They never lasted forever. But this was unexpected, this hurt and pretending to be able to hear _I told you so_ and then stand up and move on isn’t working this time.

There’s a hand suddenly, resting on the back of his head and he leans into it without thinking about it, closes his eyes and exhales slowly, feels as Fiore sits down beside him, takes his hand away and when DeBlanc finally turns to glance at him, he’s looking at a spot on the floor, just past his knees. They won’t look at each other, not really, and DeBlanc averts his gaze to the low hanging ceiling, remembers Fiore’s concern about it and hopes now was the night it would happen. He flops back on the bed, the mattress shaking, creaking, offering himself to the mercy of the shoddy wood and ancient pipes that hung above him.

Fiore peers at him over his shoulder, eyes glancing quickly to the ceiling before he lies down as well, straight as an arrow and DeBlanc folds his hands over his own chest, thumbs pressed together, tapping slightly in no specific pattern. He starts humming the song without even realizing but manages to stop himself, turns to stare at the coffee can that he had left on the small table between the beds, sitting under a lamp with a lightbulb that blinked and stuttered. They had him. For a brief moment they had— He reaches out for it but he’s too far away (and what a joke that was, after all this). If he closes one eye, he can fool his fingers into thinking he was touching it.

Something brushes against his shoulder and he turns away, looks to see Fiore looking back at him, frowning. He opens his mouth as if he’s going to try and say something but DeBlanc speaks over him.

“Whatever it is,” he says, “I don’t want to hear it.”

“It’s not your fault,” Fiore says anyway and DeBlanc blinks at him. That wasn’t quite what he had expected and it gives him pause, makes him want to look away again because sometimes he can’t stand his damn eyes _staring_ at him the way they do sometimes. He had thought they were just there for humans to see and nothing more but, when he really concentrates, there’s so much else hidden in them, molded around and behind those delicate globes of fluctuating pupils are hundreds of colors. It’s distracting. “It’s not,” Fiore insists.

“Alright,” DeBlanc says and Fiore’s hand is back, on the side of his face, just resting there, warm and clammy but oddly comforting. They had never quite gotten the hang of affectionate contact but they were working on it. DeBlanc wasn’t entirely sure how much longer they really had to get it right. “Is this the part where you tell me that everything is fine and we’ll get this all sorted, then?”

“No,” Fiore says simply. He never lied to him; DeBlanc had always appreciated that. DeBlanc moves closer, rolls more on to his side, puts a hand flat on Fiore’s chest and then stares at it as if he’s waiting for something to happen, before taking it away and sliding over to replace fingers with his head.

“Human organs make such a peculiar sound,” he notes absently, listens to the strange gurgling and the careful thud of what he knew was definitely a heart.

“Mhm,” Fiore responds with just a noise, not really listening, preoccupied. They stay like that for a short while, doing nothing in particular but being aware of each other’s bodies and the strange, heavy, tight feeling DeBlanc has making a home low in his belly. He closes his eyes again, focuses on matching his breathing to Fiore’s and puts a hand on his stomach, feels fingers touching against the back of his neck.

Minutes that feel like hours pass, slow and almost syrupy, the light changing outside from the pale yellow of curdled milk to a dark blue that was slowly, quietly falling into black. DeBlanc hears a noise, lifts his head slightly but it’s just the room making noises, trying to talk to them in its own undecipherable language. Glances at the coffee can again, can’t help himself. _Still there. Still empty._

He sits up, catches a glimpse of his reflection in the television screen.

 _Still there_ , he thinks, staring at himself, _Still empty_. What a pair.


End file.
